The Jailing of H Combeferre
by rain chant
Summary: Or, those times when Combeferre found himself in jail, sometimes despite his wishes. Even from a young age, Combeferre only seemed to make true friends when prison was involved. When your friends are mostly aspiring revolutionaries who want to change the world right now, it's kind of unavoidable. Modern day AU, featuring all of the barricade boys.
1. Chapter 1

The Jailing of H. Combeferre: or, Those Times When Combeferre's Friends Landed Him In Jail, Occasionally Despite His Wishes.

This is an AU set in the modern day, United States, somewhere in the north. All the barricade boys will eventually appear, I promise. Hope you enjoy it!

Disclaimer: Les Mis and its characters are not mine; I only borrow them.

* * *

Henri Combeferre had just gotten his first pair of prescription glasses the first time he saw the inside of a jail. They were pretty thin lenses, but the frames were black and thick, in the style that would one day be called "hipster." Some of the kids at school already called him names for being smart and enjoying school, and today, the bus ride to the jail had been unpleasant at first. As soon as they entered the prison complex, though, and their teacher had informed them that two police officers would be escorting them as their tour guides, Combeferre's glasses had taken a back seat in the conversation. A real jail! With real convicts! Half of the class of his private school wanted to be lawyers, and others were swearing that they would be detectives one day.

But as they walked through the processing area and into the holding cells, gentle Combeferre was near the head of the group, asking questions about holding procedures and rehabilitation. One officer was fairly helpful, but the other one plainly wanted to go through the tour and get these middle-schoolers out of his jail as soon as possible.

There wasn't enough information here; Combeferre resolved to research prison procedure once he got back home.

The holding cells were very occupied today. "There was a protest downtown," the more helpful officer explained. "All protests should be cleared with local law enforcement before they happen, to make sure all the proper permits are obtained; otherwise, they end up here. Most of the protesters will be out within 48 hours, so this is really just a warning. Remember, kids, always check your local, state, and federal laws. No one wants to see you in here."

Combeferre hadn't heard about any protest occurring. That was what came from neglecting to read the morning paper, he supposed. Reading the paper went straight into his mental to-do list.

The group stopped to listen to an explanation of what equipment the officers carried, and Combeferre took the opportunity to fall back through the group, all the way to the back, towards the cells. His classmates parted mechanically to let him pass; most of them took little notice of him. Still lanky, with his nondescript brown hair and new glasses, he had the ability to blend into the crowd when he wanted to. Now he approached the holding cells, keeping an eye out for his teacher.

It was a motley crew, for sure, all of them in cheap clothing, jeans and overalls, caps pulled over their heads, frayed sweaters and fingerless gloves to battle the cold outside. Henri Combeferre knew that most of the working class lived downtown, but in all his eleven years he'd never really seen them up-close. His family ran a walk-in clinic which never refused anyone admittance and gave to charities, but they also lived in a gated community and didn't really go downtown.

There were six or seven protesters to a cell, all of them crammed together and breathing the same foul-smelling air. Miserable expressions on most of them, but a few were laughing and joking or banging on the bars.

One boy with curly hair saw Combeferre's approach and threw him a smile. "Watch out, kid," he said, low enough to carry but hopefully not loud enough for the officers to hear. "They'll throw you in too if you're not careful."

The boy behind bars couldn't have been any older than thirteen, but he favored Combeferre with a smile that was wiser than his years. Combeferre was intrigued. "Why did they arrest you?" he asked.

"The protest," the boy responded. "We're on strike for health insurance. You know, because we don't get paid full-time, so it's hard to get stuff like health insurance."

"Are you allowed to work?"

The boy shook his head. "No, but I'm old enough to protest. Only, the police have rules against people using roadblocks." A guilty expression crossed his face for a moment, shading his green eyes. "I didn't mean to drag anyone into it, though. Maybe you should go before they see you talking to me."

He glanced back at his class, but no one seemed to have moved very much. "You're not dragging me into anything, so I don't see why they would have reason to be upset," Combeferre said sensibly.

"I already kind of got a friend in trouble because of this," the boy admitted. "I didn't mean to land us in jail."

Behind him, two men parted to allow a path for another, younger, boy to approach the bars. This one was small, much smaller than Combeferre, with huge blue eyes and untamed blonde hair, but something in his purposeful movement made both the other boy and Combeferre stand up straighter. "I am here because I want to be," the newcomer said. "You didn't drag me into anything, Feuilly."

He looked nine and spoke with a much more cultured accent than his friend–Feuilly–and Combeferre wasn't entirely certain that they'd never met before. This boy's red jacket was too big for him, but he didn't seem like he belonged to the working class. He put a hand on the worker boy's shoulder, and looked Combeferre straight in the eye. "You attended my last school, I think," he said.

Combeferre had a great memory for names and faces, but he drew a blank on this one. "I'm so sorry," he said. "I'm Henri Combeferre. I don't think I know either of your names."

"Alexander Enjolras," the little blonde one said. "We were in elementary school together, before I moved."

"Antoine Feuilly," said the curly-haired boy. "Don't think we've ever met. Hello!"

Only the fact that he knew there were people watching stopped him from offering his hand to shake. Instead, he nodded at both of them. "I hope they let you out soon," he said.

Alexander Enjolras looked down briefly. "We may be here a while," he said. "But the protest was worth it."

Feuilly looked over Combeferre's shoulder quickly. "Your group's starting to move. You should catch up with them, Combeferre."

The group was starting to move again, and his teacher was marshaling his classmates together. He'd be missed soon. "Well, good to meet you," Combeferre said, "and hope you get out of jail soon. I may see you later."

"Come by tomorrow. We'll still be here," Feuilly said with a grin. "Good to meet you, kid!"

Enjolras nodded. "See you later, Combeferre."

Combeferre rejoined his group with many a backward glance. Once the tour was over, he pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed his parents' work. "Mother? Hi. I just got out of the field trip…yes, it was fun. I didn't learn as much as I wanted to…yes…well, I just wanted to ask something. Remember when Father said I could have a favor if I agreed to help him with his taxes? Well, I just met two boys in jail…no, Mother…they were arrested protesting for health insurance. Just basic health insurance! No, but they said no one is coming to bail them out until tomorrow, and I was wondering if we have room at our house. They could stay the night…Yes. Bail and board. That's the favor I want. We don't have to adopt them; just the night, I promise."

* * *

_A/N: First Les Mis AU ever. If you'd like, let me know what you think! More to come._


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Les Mis is not mine.

* * *

The police wouldn't allow non-family members or people without legal guardianship to post bail for minors. Combeferre was informed of this as soon as his mother picked him up from school that day. "I checked the state laws, dear," she said, "and there's nothing that we can do for them. I'm sorry."

Combeferre nodded and looked out the window. "I understand," he said.

The office buildings around the school gave way to wealthier communities, but Combeferre barely saw any of it. His mind conjured up the smell of prison, the protesters leaning on their signs, faded overalls, a friendly smile, sharp blue eyes. In his eyes the large houses he passed became urban dwellings, bunched together as close as possible. Well-paved road became cracked and gutted. People loitered on the corners, having a cigarette before going back to work. And all around them, men and women in suits walked past without a word.

Somewhere, a family with a kid like Feuilly got by on a job with low salary and not enough hours to get health insurance, never knowing when someone might get the flu or break a leg or have a heart attack. If they didn't have health insurance, or couldn't afford it, would they have life insurance either? Could they post bail? Could they afford to get their kid out of jail? Would the government decide that they weren't fit parents, couldn't afford a child? And Enjolras, who had attended Combeferre's private school once; where were his parents? What were they doing?

"Henri? We're home."

He was shaken to the bone. He could barely move.

Long after his mother had left for her shift at the clinic, and he waited for his father to arrive home, those images stayed burned on the back of his eyes. God, it had been years since he'd actually been downtown, so he didn't know for sure that life was really like that. Perhaps it was his overactive imagination again, something that he'd had to control since he was small.

But something in him said that somewhere not too far from where he was, life really was like that.

He couldn't concentrate on homework at all. Pushing his glasses higher on his nose, he went to the Internet to look up health care.

Combeferre was in the grip of something big, and it would not let him go. When his father pulled into their driveway at six-thirty, the eleven-year-old met him at the door. "Father," he said without preamble, "I have a different favor to ask for. I want to go back down to the jail and stay the night."

To his credit, his father only stood there for about a minute before he sighed and said, "Let's go sit down, son."

"Let's go sit down, son" was what his father always said before a serious discussion, so Combeferre sat very straight when they took their places and looked his father in the eye, waiting for him to begin. It took nearly three minutes for Mr. Combeferre to marshal his thoughts. "Son, I know you have a good heart and a good head. You care about people, but you aren't foolish about it. That'll get you far in life. Your mother and I have always tried to teach you our best, to think logically and not be afraid of the conclusion. What problem have you been considering that your conclusion is to spend the night in jail?"

The younger Combeferre hesitated. "Perhaps…this isn't based just on logic. Father, everyone should be able to afford to be treated if they're ill, right? That's what you and Mother always say. But I read today that over 40 million people in this country don't have insurance. You always complain about how expensive hospitals are. So, if these workers are on strike because they can't afford to get proper treatment, then they have no reason to be in jail. They should be on the streets, where they can make people aware of the problem."

"They set up a roadblock in the middle of 42nd and Yew. That was against the law, and an extreme. Surely that caused problems for a lot of people," his father prompted.

"Yes. Maybe that was extreme. Perhaps that wasn't the best course of action. But at least it was _some_ action!" There was something he wanted to say that was so important, it was obvious, even, but the words wouldn't come easily. "Feuilly, his friends, my classmate Alexander Enjolras…" Realization hit suddenly. "They've done something. I've done nothing."

Mr. Combeferre shook his head slowly with a smile. "Son, you have the opportunity to help in your own way. You'll be one of the best doctors of the day once you're out of school. You could even go into politics, if that is your desire. That, too, you'd be good at. House of Representatives or Senate, or President even! There's no good in hasty action."

"I still want to go," said Combeferre quietly.

His father looked at the determination in his son's brown eyes and sighed. "You're eleven," he said. "I would worry all night."

"I still want to go."

"It will accomplish nothing."

"I still want to go. At least to see if Enjolras and Feuilly really are still there. They are about my age, and spending the night in jail. I'd like to talk to them. I'm sure they're at least a little frightened."

That, Mr. Combeferre couldn't argue with. Thirty minutes later, he and his son were pulling into the prison's parking lot.

The police officer on duty was the helpful one from before, and he and Mr. Combeferre traded almost identical looks of almost helpless confusion before they both looked down at Henri.

"I'd like to speak with them, please," Combeferre repeated politely.

"There must be a visitation policy," his father said. "I know this is unorthodox, but one of the boys went to school with my son. They are both still here, are they not? I would post bail myself, if I could."

The officer nodded. "Yes, Mr. Combeferre. You're well known for setting a good example to others around here; I'd let them go with you if I could. We are waiting on Alexander Enjolras's parents to arrive, and also on the arrival of Antoine Feuilly's social worker. I'll check with my superior, but a visit is probably in regulations."

Combeferre smiled. He knew that his father could arrange it.

Now that he was here, though, what exactly was he going to say? Oh, hello, I saw you earlier in jail today and decided to join in? I can't post bail, but I can stay with you? Why exactly would they want his company? On the ride over, Combeferre had been calm, but now his stomach jumped. He did have a reason for coming over, even if he couldn't quite define it to himself. What was he going to say?

Combeferre was escorted to an open holding cell, and he leaned against the wall to wait. Whenever you're stressed, his mother had said, breathe slowly. Panicking doesn't help. Combeferre ran a hand through his hair quickly and waited.

But as soon as the two boys in question were escorted to Combeferre's waiting room, Feuilly grinned so wide that his face almost split and grabbed the bars with both hands, his face pressed into the gap. "Didn't I warn you that they'd get you too?" His face fell a bit. "They didn't arrest you, right?"

"No, no," Combeferre said as the officer shooed them inside and then, in true jail fashion, locked them in, "but I left earlier without the chance to shake your hands. I didn't introduce myself properly."

Feuilly smiled, but Enjolras stepped forward first and offered his hand to shake. "Combeferre," he said, "I thought I'd see you soon. Welcome back to jail."

A smile curled its way across Combeferre's face, and he didn't even stop to think about how weird that sentence was.

Two hours and a snack break later, Combeferre knew that Feuilly lost both parents at the age of ten, that his foster parents didn't really care that he protested, and that he would probably be moved to a new home soon anyway. He had an interest in woodwork, blacksmithing, and painting, and he thought it was weird how both Enjolras and Combeferre called him and each other by their last names. "It seems like a private school thing," he said.

Enjolras agreed. "Everyone was a last name in the school we went to," he explained. "It catches on after a while. I'm not sure if I like the idea or not."

Enjolras, Combeferre had discovered, was also eleven and was not fond of his home life. "I spend my time with others when I can," he said, dismissively, as though it were no big deal. Combeferre couldn't even imagine living like that. He was also more knowledgeable about health care than either Feuilly or Combeferre, and what he believed, he believed strongly. "If people aren't going to listen when we talk," he said, "then we shouldn't be punished for making them listen. The roadblock was a great idea."

Combeferre was pretty sure that Enjolras wasn't a part of the 'we' that didn't have insurance, but he didn't comment. Enjolras's extreme confidence was a little disconcerting, however. How could he be so sure that he was in the right?

Still, he couldn't remember the last time he talked to any of his classmates so freely, as he told them about his plans to be a doctor and his young beagle puppy.

"I've never had a dog," Feuilly said wistfully. "Never stayed in one place enough."

"You should visit me," Combeferre said quickly. He meant it, he realized. He really wanted them to hang out, and Feuilly looked pleased. "Honestly, I don't think my parents will mind. We can borrow the living room and set up there."

"Set up?" Feuilly asked. "For our plans to take over the world?"

"Of course not," Enjolras said. "Plans to better the world."

"The Brain thought he would better the world, too," Combeferre said, and was relieved when Feuilly got the joke.

Enjolras's blue eyes stared into his own. "I mean to really make the world better. You do too, or else I don't think you would be here."

Part of what Combeferre was trying to explain to his father earlier bubbled up in the back of his throat, and he swallowed. "We'll set everything up properly," he promised. "It will be a real headquarters, a base of operations. I've got high-speed internet and we have subscriptions to at least three newspapers. I lose count, actually."

Feuilly and Enjolras exchanged glances and looked back at him with eyes alight.

Combeferre felt a twitch akin to nerves, but better than that. This was the start of something. He pushed his glasses higher on his nose and nodded. "I'll see how soon I can arrange it all. Give me your numbers, or however I can talk to you."

Feuilly's social worker arrived around ten, and the boy hugged Enjolras and hesitated a second before wrapping his arms around Combeferre, too. "See you later!" he yelled as the frazzled woman led him away.

Enjolras kept looking out of their cell. "Thanks for giving us a place to meet," he said. "I'll give you a call once I'm out, and we'll set it up."

Combeferre looked straight ahead as well. "Do you think you'll be out any time soon?"

"Probably not until tomorrow. But I don't mind waiting. At least, the police will remember I was here, and they'll remember this protest."

"Okay," Combeferre said, and sat back down with his back against the wall.

Enjolras looked down at him in surprise. "Aren't you leaving? You have school tomorrow, right?"

Yes, he did, and he knew his dad would be anxious for them to leave, but he didn't really care about that right then. He didn't want to go. "No," he said honestly. "I'm staying here until morning. If you don't mind the company."

A light broke out in Enjolras's face, and Combeferre had to smile in response as the other boy sat down in front of him. Enjolras might have been only eleven, and a bit extreme, but Combeferre liked him. "We have some planning to do, then," his new friend said. "I was serious when I said I plan on changing the world."

"So was I," Combeferre replied. "Where should we start?"

* * *

_A/N: Second chapter! Thank you to everyone who reviewed and followed. I'm basing the prison rules off of the MA state laws. If anyone finds any inconsistencies in them, please let me know. The next chapter will skip forward a few years, and we'll see some of the other barricade boys._


	3. Chapter 3

Feuilly got his first job around the same time that Combeferre left the private school system to attend the same high school that Enjolras enrolled in. At fourteen, Enjolras looked twelve and dressed like he'd just come off of the street, but he took the freshman class by storm, running for student government and joining the school journal. Combeferre followed him in both, and in return dragged Enjolras into the school's lacrosse team.

"Look, you have to get some exercise," Combeferre said, brandishing a biomedical book as though he could intimidate Enjolras with its weight alone. A completely useless endeavor, but Combeferre did what he could. "All great leaders need something to ground them."

Enjolras barked a laugh at that. "I'm already well-grounded, Combeferre! Between school and journalism, and our meetings, I can take on the world."

Combeferre had taken one look at Enjolras's wild eyes, fevered face, and the paper clinging to his sleeve, and convinced him to try lacrosse anyway.

Much to both of their surprise, they weren't bad at it. Enjolras was small, but fast, and completely focused on the field. Combeferre was still lanky but starting to fill out, and his hands were the steadiest on the team, as long as he wore his contacts so he could see.

Lacrosse also brought a new change into their lives: Arthur de Courfeyrac.

When Combeferre thought about it, a lot of their freshman success came from their new friend's influence. The dashing sophomore had adopted them almost immediately after they made the team, and laughed about the way the two always called each other by their last names.

"You call everyone else by their first name, but you talk to each other like private school pricks," he had said. "Why is that?"

"Because we were private school pricks once," Enjolras retorted. "And we met in prison. What's your opinion on same-sex marriage?"

"To each their own," he proclaimed, and then winked. "Got nothing against it myself."

Two weeks later, Arthur was invited to attend Combeferre's weekly meetings and earned the right to be called by his last name. True to form, he laughed about that too, with extreme good humor. "de Courfeyrac sounds so…so…stuck-up!"

"Pretentious?" Combeferre suggested.

"Yes! Pretentious!" he yelled. "Courfeyrac will do for me."

Each week for a month, the four students met in the Combeferre household's basement to discuss world events, schoolwork, lacrosse, and girls. "Girls?" Enjolras asked, sitting up straight and putting the latest _New York Times_ down on the oaken desk. "Courfeyrac, why are you talking about girls?"

"Because someone has to bring some normality to this group," Courfeyrac said, lounging on the black leather couch. He dropped the television remote onto the table in front of him and stretched. "Besides, I think it's relevant, considering Combeferre's in love."

"What?" Combeferre spluttered, and turned pink.

"What?" Enjolras echoed. "Combeferre." His blue eyes were almost accusing. "When did this happen?"

"Has he really not noticed?" Courfeyrac asked. "Honestly. Where were you?"

Feuilly, stretched out on the floor with textbooks around him, just shook his head. "Enjolras is always like that. You get used to it. It took him about a month to acknowledge that my girlfriend even existed–"

Loud barking interrupted him, and Combeferre's beagle tripped down the stairs to climb onto Feuilly's back. Feuilly laughed like a child. "Stop it, Darwin, I'm trying to study."

"And we're discussing Combeferre's love life," Courfeyrac added. "Enjolras, come on. You didn't notice the way he was looking at the lovely Annie Winslow?"

Combeferre turned an even deeper shade of pink at the name. Okay, perhaps he liked the girl. Perhaps he was fond of the girl. Perhaps he'd even like to give her a kiss, sweep her hair behind her ear and hear her giggle–

But perhaps, also, she didn't even know that he existed. And maybe he was scared to say anything. It was safer to study geology. Combeferre leaned down closer to his textbook, pushing his glasses higher on his nose.

"Annie Winslow is a cheerleader," Enjolras pointed out, flatly.

"That's judgmental," Courfeyrac reprimanded. "She's a very pretty and very intelligent young lady. I might have fancied her myself, once upon a time."

"What happened?" Feuilly asked.

"She was smart enough to have a boyfriend at the time, and avoided me," Courfeyrac said smoothly. "But now she doesn't, so if we can get her to notice Combeferre..."

Combeferre cleared his throat. "Now's really not the time. I mean, I have tests to study for, and that article to finish for the paper, and lacrosse still has a few more weeks left."

Enjolras nodded at Combeferre. "Exactly. She's a nice girl, sure, but not worth it."

Courfeyrac picked a Dorito out of the bag on the table and threw it at Enjolras. "Okay, do you even know that there exists such a thing as a girl? Is that it? Because you have a fan club, or you would if you'd give any of them the time of day. I'd love to be in your shoes!"

Feuilly grinned. "Haven't you been talking about a different girl every week since, I don't know, you got here?"

Courfeyrac slapped his belly. "Well, yeah, I see my share, but once I lose a few pounds I'll be even more popular. You'll see. Stop changing the subject. Combeferre." He pointed a finger at the boy. "Listen, this week you aren't staying here. You're coming over to my house on Friday, and then on Saturday we're going to the lacrosse party. Where you are going to go up to Annie and talk to her." He waved away Combeferre's protests. "No. Being a smart-as-hell doctor will get you girls when you're 25. Not now. You've got to impress her. You've got to sweep her off her feet!"

Combeferre coughed. "Umm…how? Does she…like science? Or geology? I know a lot about that, and I do follow Broadway, so I know theater as well…"

"Hold on," Enjolras cut in. "This weekend? When we have articles to do for Monday."

"Enjolras!" Courfeyrac groaned. "Feuilly, are you in? I can bring as many people back as I like, my parents won't care."

"I have work," Feuilly said, "so I can't go. Otherwise, I'm all for it."

Enjolras sighed. "Combeferre, do you like this girl that much?"

Combeferre ducked his head, very self-conscious. The heat from his face could boil water. It took several seconds of gathering his courage before he raised his head and spoke the words to Enjolras alone. "Yeah. I do."

Those blue eyes examined him for a moment, before Enjolras nodded. "Okay. If you're going to make an impression, you're going to make an _impression_."

* * *

Combeferre had always known that Enjolras was a little intense and a little crazy, but he had never known exactly how much. "The Bryson Lion," he said. "_The Bryson Lion._ That's your plan."

Courfeyrac had tears in his eyes from his laughter. "This is why you get to party with us. That's better than anything I could have thought up."

Enjolras nodded, looking up at the lion in question. "Bring her that lion, and she'll notice you."

The Bryson Lion was a town icon. When Louis Bryson had opened his first burger joint ten years ago, he had placed the life-sized plastic lion on top as a statement. A statement of what, Combeferre couldn't say. Now the burger joint had become a popular chain, but everyone hated Bryson.

No one hated Bryson more than Enjolras. He firmly believed that Bryson's treatment of his workers, inability to offer higher quality food, and general lack of compassion put the man at number one on his protest list. The protest hadn't happened yet, mostly due to Combeferre's calming influence.

Courfeyrac finally got his laughter under control. "Yeah, bring her the lion and she'll notice you, all right. Bring her that lion, and I'll call you the Lion-Slayer for the rest of your days! Combeferre the Lion-Slayer!"

The name was ridiculous, but it had a nice ring to it.

Courfeyrac's phone buzzed, and he grinned at it. "Michel's going to get here soon. That'll give us four hours before the party starts, to get that lion."

"Who said that we are actually going to steal it? Did you hear me agree to this?" Combeferre asked. "I know _I _didn't hear myself agree to this."

"But you admit it will get her attention. And it's an Enjolras-approved plan. I've known him for a few months and already I can see that's a rare thing. Just wait until you meet Michel! I know he's all for it. Boy's a hellraiser. Don't tell him I called him a boy, he's actually eighteen. And kind of touchy about it. There he is! The one in the neon orange. Sadly, I know him."

Michel Bahorel was all for it. In fact, he was so for it that he volunteered his services immediately. Enjolras was nearly shaking with eagerness for this first strike against Bryson, and Courfeyrac somehow managed to combine puppy eyes with a face-splitting grin.

To his chagrin, Combeferre thought of Annie and her freckles and found himself saying, "Okay. We need a plan."

* * *

Two hours later, Combeferre once again found himself in jail.

Not behind bars, though. Merely out in the waiting room with Enjolras and Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac would not lift his head. "It's my fault, too," he said. "I know Michel's violent. He shouldn't have tried to punch that police officer."

"He shouldn't have stood up before he was done with the screws," Enjolras said quietly. "If he'd stayed down, that officer wouldn't have noticed him. He didn't notice us."

"We had strategic placement," Combeferre offered, just as softly. "And it's not your fault, Courfeyrac, it's mine. I should not have agreed to the plan in the first place."

Courfeyrac shrugged. "How are your parents going to react, when they find out about this?"

"Well, I'm not implicated in anything, so I doubt they'll be too angry. Don't worry about it now. Worry about it later."

Enjolras hit Combeferre's arm. "Here he comes."

Some people walk aimlessly. Some people walk with purpose. Some people seem to only concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, while others don't concentrate on their feet at all. Michel Bahorel strolled out of the processing area, carefully careless, with his jacket slung over his shoulder and his chin high. "Hey boys. They let me out," he said.

The other three stood, and were able to stay quiet until they got outside. "Michel, I'm sorry, man, I didn't think cops would make their rounds so soon, the plan should have been foolproof–" Courfeyrac started.

"–shouldn't have agreed to it," Combeferre cut in. "I never wanted to land you in trouble with the law. Please allow me to apologize–"

"–and why did you stand up?" Enjolras demanded. "We hoisted you onto that roof without anyone seeing. All you had to do was loosen those screws, and we'd have gotten the lion down later."

"Whoa, whoa!" Michel said. "First of all, no worries, fuck the police. Second of all, you didn't force me to do it. I chose to. So again, no worries. Third, those damn screws wouldn't come loose, so I was about to climb down when that officer strolled by. And fourth of all, as soon as I drop my pants, you're welcome."

"_What–"_ everyone got out, before Michel Bahorel stuck a hand in his pants, rummaged around, and came up with very thin cell phone.

"Where'd you stick that?" Courfeyrac cried.

"You don't want to know. I'm pretty sure the police didn't want to search me that closely, even if I punched one," Michel said. He turned to Combeferre. "The phone is evidence. I didn't get you the lion, but I did as much as I could before the police got me. There's a heart carved into that lion's ass that has the words 'C loves A' inside. So, you're welcome."

Combeferre didn't know what to say. "May I call you Bahorel?" he finally asked.

* * *

Combeferre's parents didn't want Bahorel in their son's weekly meetings, and they didn't want Courfeyrac in their house. Combeferre and Enjolras searched the city around their high school until they found a new spot. It was small, run-down, and promptly nicknamed the Isla de Muerta by Courfeyrac at first sight. "The only people who can find it are the people who already know where it is."

Enjolras and Combeferre both loved it, for the coffee and the food and the quiet back room it offered to the boys. It was called the Café Musain.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for reading, everyone! This was not a serious chapter at all, but I do want to keep this story light, so the hardcore protests won't go down until later. _

_I can only see Bahorel as someone who swears a lot, for some reason. _

_Hope you enjoyed!_


End file.
